


This Flesh That I'm In

by faeleverte



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Bacon, I'm serious I don't even know how there got to be so much bacon, M/M, Sexual Tension, Tahiti is a Magical Place, mind control?, so much bacon, what's wrong with Phil?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-14
Updated: 2013-10-14
Packaged: 2017-12-29 10:20:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1004245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faeleverte/pseuds/faeleverte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It was a magical place,” Phil heard himself whisper, and he bit his tongue hard enough to draw blood. </p><p>	Blood. Blood was good. Blood meant his body was alive. Blood meant he could bruise and break and die. Blood meant he wasn’t a robot, wasn’t a fake, was still Phillip J. Coulson. </p><p>	Blood meant his heart was still beating.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Flesh That I'm In

**Author's Note:**

> With eternal gratitude for two of my favorite writers who are also my favorite betas and two of my favorite people, [Selana](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/Selana/pseuds/Selana) and [Kathar](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Kathar/pseuds/Kathar). If you haven't read their work, you're missing out on glorious treats.

Phil woke sweating and swearing and stumbled to the head to splash water across his face and relieve his aching bladder. He scratched the back of his neck with his left hand while he held his cock with the right, aiming a steady stream into the tiny toilet, and then he scratched at his chest. He snapped from that dreamy, post nightmare state to full wakefulness when he heard his own voice murmur, “It’s a magical place.”

And, really, what is it with that phrase? Phil shook away the last drop, tugged the fly of his sleep pants closed, and turned to wash his hands as the toilet auto-flushed. After soaping and rinsing, he splashed a double handful of water across his face and groaned quietly, letting his fingers press into the lines just above his eyelashes. Everything felt so unfamiliar. How could everything seem so perfect and so completely alien at once?

A glance at the alarm showed that it wouldn’t go off for another fifty-six minutes, so Phil flipped his pillow to put the cool side against his cheek as he dropped back into the blankets. Fifty-five minutes of sleep sounded like a good idea. Maybe he would feel normal after that.

Just as he sank into the blessed quiet of rest, Phil tried to remember the nightmare that had awakened him in the first place. He drew a blank, and then sleep swept him away.

 

Three days after the nightmare, Coulson was standing in the shower trying to, er, relieve some pressure, but he couldn’t find a rhythm. He switched hands and tried again, sifting through his memory for images of touch, of heat, of pressure. He switched hands again. 

He suddenly wished, for the first and last time, that he had taken Reyes up on her offer of… whatever she had been offering. Maybe he was just out of practice since the Loki incident. He felt a new wave of longing sweep over him, melting his erection. He missed Clint. Right then, however, he would have taken any touch that was familiar with him from… before. Maybe the surgery and follow up medication had damaged him. 

Maybe it was all lies, anyway. He shook his head, thinking hard to remember the days in the tiny room with the trainer and nothing to do. Days of nothing to focus on except the strain in his back as he lifted weights, the burn in his arms and legs as he rolled across the floor and back. Nothing to taste but the cloying sweetness of the thick shakes full of Thor-knew-what cocktail of drugs the R&D department had come up with for him to rebuild what he had lost. 

“It was a magical place,” Phil heard himself whisper, and he bit his tongue hard enough to draw blood. 

Blood. Blood was good. Blood meant his body was alive. Blood meant he could bruise and break and die. Blood meant he wasn’t a robot, wasn’t a fake, was still Phillip J. Coulson. 

Blood meant his heart was still beating.

 

Another week passed. Phil’s new team continued to do him proud. They continued to prove him right, prove his mind was still ticking at speed. They found a new gadget to keep Fitz-Simmons busy for a few weeks. May was keeping a watchful eye on Ward’s training of Skye, so that worry was no longer hanging over Phil’s head. The Bus was parked for a few upgrades, and Phil decided it was time. He threw a few items into a duffel, dropped the bag into Lola’s passenger seat, and drove, heading away from the setting sun.

Too many hours of driving, accompanied by unwelcome country music and welcome weather that let Lola remain topless, and Phil was crawling through an early morning traffic snarl. New York. So good to be home. Ish. He pulled his phone out of the inner chest pocket of his jacket and dialed a number he had memorized a decade before. He wasn’t breathing as he listened to the rings.

‘’Lo?” a groggy voice answered, thick with sleep and a level of exhaustion and grief that Phil didn’t dare contemplate too closely while he was still driving. He sucked in a breath and answered before the silence dragged on too long.

“Don’t hang up. I can’t prove it’s me if you do,” Phil said crisply, trying to keep the desperation from leaking into his voice.

“The usual place,” came the reply, no hesitation. “How long do you need?”

“Thirty minutes,” Phil said. “I can be there in thirty.”

The line went dead, and Phil was absolutely not shaking as he slid the phone back into his pocket. He was perfectly calm, perfectly relaxed, perfectly in control. Except for all the ways he was not, which was every way that did not relate to slamming the button for lights, sirens, and the computer controlled navigation system.

Thirty minutes. That was all he needed to keep breathing. Twenty-nine minutes.

Arriving at the diner, Phil was not surprised to find Clint already curled into a back booth, two cups of coffee steaming on the table in front of him.

“No Natasha?” Phil asked as he slid into the empty seat.

“She’s on some… thing. With Cap,” Clint replied. His eyes were dark and guarded, and he looked so damned beautiful that Phil twisted his fingers into the bottom edge of his jacket to keep himself from launching across the table and grabbing handfuls of archer. “And you’re not dead.”

“I was,” Phil confessed with just a hint of braggadocio. “Officially and everything. Eight seconds, they said. Felt a lot longer. Surgery and then a trip to Tahiti for rehab. It’s a magical place.” 

“Why did I not know?” Clint asked. “My clearance level matches yours. Well, it did.”

“Still does,” Phil said. He took a sip of coffee and nearly groaned at the familiarity of the perfect brew. “No one in the Avengers was to know. You’re taking this awfully well.”

Clint laughed, higher than usual, a hint of hysteria and bitterness coloring the sound. It was still the most beautiful song Phil had heard since the in-lab cameras caught the vibrant prism of Clint’s eyes being replaced with the coldest, bitterest blue.

“Did a little digging on the way here, Sir,” Clint said, leaning his elbows on the table. “Managed to get into some files that were none of my damn business. Read what you’ve been up to. But if you think this is ‘well,’ you’re not looking close enough.”

“The rest of your team doesn’t find out, Barton,” Phil said. He felt his controlled little Agent half-smile on his face and hated it. He should not have to show Clint his Agent Face. He would rather show him… No, Phil. Don’t start down that road. “Natasha, if she’s in any shape to know when she gets back. No one else. Period.”

A waitress interrupted with two plates, one loaded with golden pancakes and the other a decadent Belgian waffle and an oversized heap of bacon. 

“Haven’t seen you around, hon,” she said to Phil as she leaned over to top up his coffee. “Out of the country with work?”

“And a vacation,” Phil told her. “Tahiti. It’s a magical place.”

“Phil,” Clint whispered, as the woman walked away. “What did they do to you?”

“I don’t know, Clint,” Phil answered helplessly. “I just… I can’t… Please, I need…”

Clint scrambled out of the booth without any of his usual grace and jerked Phil to his feet by the sleeve of his jacket, dragging him to the hallway by the kitchen, and shoving him into the men’s room. When the door was securely locked behind them, Phil found himself being crowded into a wall by Clint’s broad chest, deft hands unknotting his tie and slipping free the buttons of his shirt. Phil hissed as Clint’s fingers dug under the undershirt, rucking it up to gain access to the furred span of chest behind.

“Goddamnit, Phil,” Clint groaned, turning away and curling into himself. His shoulders shook for a moment as if he was crying, and Phil started to reach out to offer comfort. Clint saw the movement reflected in the mirror and spun back, a gun from some hidden holster pressed into the groove between Phil’s eyebrows.

“Clint, what…”

“Shut up, Phil. Phil-a-like. Phake Phil. Whatever the fuck you are,” Clint snarled, pressing harder with the gun. “What are you?”

“Clint, I’m me,” Phil said, trying to keep the tremble out of his voice. “Clint, it’s just me. I’m here, and I’m scared, and there’s something wrong, and I need you to help me figure out what the hell they did to me. Please, Clint. God, you’re the only one who can help. I need you like I did after the Borneo op in ninety-four.”

The gun vanished into its hiding place, and Clint’s arms circled Phil’s shoulders. 

“They got the smell right,” Clint’s voice was muffled by Phil’s neck. “You feel right. Even your skin feels right, but that’s the problem, isn’t it.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Clint,” Phil said, digging his fingers into the hard muscles of Clint’s back where they strained under the soft, white t-shirt with the purple target on the front. He wasn’t sure why he had almost gotten shot, and he was less sure why he hadn’t gotten shot, but he was going to take all of this hug that he could get.

Clint backed away slowly but firmly and reached for Phil’s jacket. “Take this off,” he said, sliding it out of the way. His deft fingers unbuttoned Phil’s cuffs, and the shirt was peeled off next. “Are you ready for this?” Clint asked, nose an inch away from Phil’s as his fingers teased the hem of the undershirt.

“Get on with it, Barton,” Phil snapped, trying to keep his breathing under control as he raised his arms.

Clint swept the shirt up and over Phil’s head in a gesture that was achingly familiar to Phil. How many times had he been on the receiving end of that same smooth undressing?

“Phil,” Clint said, pulling Phil toward the sink and stepping around to press his chest to Phil’s back. Phil’s eyes dropped shut and his head fell back to land on Clint’s broad shoulder, his brain completely offline at the intimacy and immediacy of the touch. “Phil,” Clint’s voice in his ear, hard and angry, pulled him back into the present. “Look.”

Phil met his own eyes in the mirror and forced his gaze down to where Clint’s broad hand was splayed across the right side of his chest. Calloused fingertips dragged whorls through his chest hair, and Clint’s other hand slid around his ribs to press into the hard line of muscle down Phil’s stomach.

“Well,” Phil said, “not bad for an old man, and the view is much improved with your additions, but I’m not sure what you want me to look at.”

“Your chest, Phil,” Clint said, resting his chin on Phil’s shoulder. “Look at your chest. At what isn’t there.”

Phil looked. He felt dizzy and hot, grounded and icy cold, all at once, but he was having trouble focusing. 

“I don’t see…” he trailed off as Clint’s left hand made a sweep from navel to shoulder and back down. “Oh. I… Oh. Clint… What does this mean?”

Clint’s hand was stroking over smooth, unblemished skin. No tiny knife, bullet, and whip scars. No giant stab wound. Nothing. Perfect skin and unbroken grain of thick hair. The edges of the world went a little fuzzy, and Phil would have landed in a heap on the floor if Clint’s muscular arms hadn’t been prepared for just that occurrence. Phil’s last thought before consciousness left was, “He’ll never let me live down fainting again.”

When he came to, Phil was sitting back in the booth, his coffee and pancakes still steaming on the table, and his tie neatly knotted under his chin. His jacket was draped across the seatback across from him, and the hard line of Clint’s thigh was pressed against his own on the vinyl. 

“And welcome back, sir,” Clint said around an enormous bite of waffle. “Bacon?”

Phil glared before snatching the bacon out of Clint’s fingers and chewing it as if it had personally offended him.

“Do you bleed?” Clint asked after swallowing.

“Yes,” Phil answered. “Bruise, ache, and, on chilly mornings, I feel things go ‘pop,’ too.”

“Age is not kind,” Clint replied, stretching his arms over his head and arching his back. The resulting orchestra of crackling joints made a woman at a table on the other side of the room turn to look. Clint shot her a flirtatious wink and saluted with another strip of bacon. Phil snagged that piece just before Clint’s teeth sank into it.

“We do not wave crispy pork products at strange women,” Phil said with some asperity. “Anyone who waves bacon at strangers does not deserve to have bacon.”

“My god, I’ve missed you,” Clint said, pressing their shoulders together and cutting another bite of waffle. “Eat first, and then we’ll go back to mine to talk.”

 

“Lucky, leave Phil alone,” Clint said as they walked into the apartment less than an hour later. There had been a brief glaring match over who was driving Lola (Phil won; she was his afterlife crisis prize) and a lot of silence and uncertain brushes of fingers against wrists on the drive, but they had both been content as Clint unlocked the door.

“‘Scuse the mess, Sir,” Clint said, waving a hand the empty pizza boxes on the counter. “Kate hasn’t been here to take care of me much in the past couple of weeks.”

“Miss Bishop,” Phil said with a nod. “How’s she shaping up?”

“She’s good,” Clint replied, opening the fridge to pull out a bottle of Gatorade. “Drink?”

“No, thanks,” Phil said, suddenly feeling out of place and strangely shy.

Clint gulped half the bottle and replaced the lid.

“None of that, Phil,” he said softly. He set the bottle on the counter and prowled across the floor with his usual compact grace. Phil sucked in a breath as Clint’s hands again unknotted the tie and began unbuttoning the shirt. “Let’s see what we’re working with here.”

Phil closed his eyes and tried to regulate his breathing as warm fingers brushed the sides of his neck and then the skin of his shoulders once the shirt and jacket were removed. The undershirt was again swept over his head, and then deft hands were unbuckling his belt and unfastening his slacks, pushing them down with his underwear. He concentrated on trying to avoid an inappropriate erection, but it did little good; Clint’s touch was electric and so, so welcome.

“Gotta take it all off, Sir,” Clint said, kneeling to untie Phil’s shoes. His voice sounded rough around the edges, and Phil lifted his feet one at a time to allow his shoes, socks, pants, and boxers to be gently peeled from his ankles. “God…” Clint’s voice cracked, and he rested one palm against Phil’s thigh, leaning in until his head was pressed into Phil’s hip. “You’re completely unmarked, and completely you, Sir. Still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever… I’m sorry, Sir. I know this isn’t...”

“It’s okay, Clint,” Phil said, reaching down to cup the back of Clint’s head, pulling them more tightly together. “Really, really okay.” His own voice was completely wrecked. This, at least, was entirely familiar. 

They stood like that for several minutes until Clint pulled away and scrubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands. He rose gracefully to his feet and circled to examine Phil’s back. 

“You’ve lost that knot where that assassin got the drop on you in Belize,” he said, stroking his fingers over the place on Phil's ribs. Phil shivered at the touch. “Tattoo is still here, though,” Clint’s voice was much too close, breath brushing the inked skin of Phil’s right shoulder. 

“Clint,” Phil said, closing his eyes and letting his head drop back to rest on Clint’s broad shoulder. “What am I?”

“Let’s get you dressed for comfort and talk about that,” Clint said gently, wrapping his arms over Phil’s to rest on the unscarred chest.

 

Forty minutes later, the two men were both in sweatpants with heavy mugs of coffee in their hands, sitting side by side on the couch. 

“So where’d you collect the dog?” Phil asked, scratching said dog behind the ears. Lucky leaned into his knee and drooled on his pants. 

“He sorta came with the building,” Clint said, the corner of his mouth quirking up slightly. “It’s a long story, and I’ll be glad to tell you the whole thing when we’ve figured out your problem.”

“I feel like me,” Phil said in a small voice, taking a sip of his coffee.

“That you do,” Clint said and leered. 

“Shut up, Barton,” Phil snapped. He managed to drag out his blandest secret agent smile, the one Natasha had always called “Please Underestimate Me Face Number One.” “You wouldn’t complain about feeling this body if it did turn out to be a Skrull or an LMD.”

“And you’re sure you’re not?” Clint asked, leaning over to set his coffee cup on the floor. He slipped one hand behind a sofa cushion and pulled out a sleek, wickedly sharp throwing knife. “I only have your word on the bleeding thing,” he said with an apologetic shrug.

Phil sighed heavily, traded his cup of coffee for the knife and slid it across the palm of his hand. He followed that with a gentle drag across the back of his opposite forearm and held both oozing cuts up for Clint’s inspection. Clint pressed a fingertip to the cut on the back of his arm, and Phil winced.

“So you bleed. And hurt.”

“And feel both lust and annoyance,” Phil said dryly. Clint threw his head back to laugh as Phil handed back the knife and took his coffee. His uninjured palm dropped back to Lucky’s ears. “And I’m rather considering stealing your dog.”

“Looks like you already did,” Clint said. He hesitated, a pause only noticeable to someone with Phil’s observational capabilities, and then said, “How long are you staying?”

“How long do you want me to stay?” Phil asked, wrapping both hands around his mug and staring hard into the depths of the brew.

“Don’t ask me that,” Clint said softly. He reached out to rest one hand on Phil’s knee. “Just tell me how long you can be here this time.”

“Bus is grounded for another five days,” Phil replied. “So at least three days. If I can…”

Clint interrupted him with a hug, pulling Phil in to his chest and sighing heavily.

“As long as you can, Phil,” Clint said. “I’ll take whatever SHIELD and this shitty life we live will give me.”

 

The second day, Phil was wearing only a pair of Clint’s jeans and his own reading glasses and frying bacon in the tacky little kitchen. He’d slept in Clint’s bed with Lucky for company while Clint folded his rangy frame onto the battered sofa. Clint was still asleep, one socked foot on the floor, drooling onto his own bicep. Phil pulled out his mobile to click a picture; Natasha would love to see this later. If he was ever allowed to contact her again. 

“Breakfast is ready, Sleeping Beauty,” Phil said, leaning down to run his fingers through the mess of Clint’s soft blond spikes. “There’s bacon with a side of bacon and some slightly suspect eggs.”

Clint’s smile was warm and soft as he rolled and stretched, wiping his cheek on the shoulder of his t-shirt. 

“Morning, Boss,” he said, flopping onto his back and fixing his sharp blue eyes on Phil’s mouth. “Trying to spoil me already?”

“You’re already past your sell by date, Barton,” Phil replied. He shrugged one shoulder and bent down to brush his lips across Clint’s. “Bacon’s getting cold.”

They leaned on the kitchen counter, shoulders bumping as they ate off the communal bacon plate. Clint took a forkful of eggs from the pan and cringed at a crunchy bit.

“You weren’t kidding about the suspect status of the eggs, Phil,” he said, shaking in a bit more salt. “How did you live when you weren’t on assignment?”

“When have I ever not been on assignment?” Phil asked dryly. “And I have the best intel-gathering organization in the world to keep me up to date on restaurants and carry-out joints.”

Clint laughed easily and pressed his hip against Phil’s for a long moment. 

“So we’ve figured out that your brain is Phil’s brain. Your brain. Whatever,” Clint began. “So today we should really check out your body and see what’s different, aside from baby-fresh skin.”

“If you ever refer to any part of my being as baby-anything again,” Phil snapped, leveling a glare over his glasses, “I will personally see that you’re demoted to a desk for the rest of your natural existence.”

“So I can’t talk about your baby blue eyes?” Clint asked, crowding Phil against the counter with his chest. “Because I really like talking about them, and I like the way they get so dark when I’m near you like this. I love the way you…”

Phil groaned and gave up fighting himself, leaning in for a salty, bacon-flavored kiss. Their teeth clashed slightly and noses bumped before they finally got the angle right, and then there were tongues and softness and a few deep groans. 

“Well,” Clint said, reluctantly pulling away. “That… felt like a first time.”

Phil’s eyes were wild. 

“It was familiar, like I’d seen it before, but it felt new,” he said, pushing Clint’s chest away with both hands and grabbing another strip of bacon before heading off to pace the living room. “Guns are the same. Every weapon I pick up. I tried the paperclip trick a few days ago, and it just bounced off the wall.”

“Please tell me you didn’t do it inside the airplane,” Clint said, eyebrows halfway to his hairline. Phil shot him an unimpressed look and kept pacing.

“I can’t even manage to…” Phil trailed off and blushed. 

“To what?” Clint asked, and then the penny dropped and he grinned. “Really, Sir?”

“No, Barton,” Phil snapped. “I’m making it up because I want to see that look on your face.” He narrowed his eyes and gave Clint the look that Natasha called “Agent Eat-Shit-and-Die.” 

“Well,” Clint drawled, “we have a day and a half to work on that problem. If you’re up for it.” He smirked at his own double entendre, and Phil stomped over to look out the window to keep Clint from seeing his increasing blush.

“Barton,” he began, “Clint, I don’t know what I am. I don’t know who I am, and I’m starting to have some doubts about everything Fury and Hill told me. And you’re thinking with your dick. Not entirely helpful.”

“You’re Phillip J. Coulson,” Clint said, sliding his hands up Phil’s arms to rest on his shoulders. “You’re the baddest motherfucker at SHIELD, barring only Fury. And you are the most incredible human being I have ever known. Whatever happened, whatever they did to you doesn’t matter. We’ll figure it out.”

Phil leaned back, letting his body sag into Clint’s embrace. Clint’s lips brushed the side of his neck gently.

“How did I not see it, Clint?” he asked. “How have I missed it all this time?”

“Tell me about Tahiti, Phil,” Clint commanded. 

“It… it was boring. And painful. And I don’t think I’m remembering it quite right,” Phil said.

“And…?” Clint prompted.

“What?” Phil asked, twisting to look Clint in the eye.

“There was a phrase you were using,” Clint answered. “Before. Twice at the diner. That’s what clued me in to something being wrong.”

“I don’t remember it,” Phil said slowly.

“That’s probably for the best,” Clint answered, wrapping his arms more tightly around Phil’s chest. “Let’s go see what else this nice new chassis can do and forget about it for a couple days.”

“Are you trying to seduce me or take me for a test drive?” Phil asked, raising one eyebrow. 

“Is there a difference?” Clint whispered. And then he pressed his lips to the delicate skin behind Phil’s ear, and Phil was happy to forget for a couple of stolen days. 

 

Clint swung the duffle into Lola’s passenger seat and reached out for Phil. 

“You’ll keep looking?” Clint asked, voiced muffled by Phil’s shoulder. 

“When there’s time,” Phil answered, palming the back of Clint’s neck to hold him close. “It’s not as important right now. You’ve gotten me through the worst of it.”

“It doesn’t matter what happened, Phil,” Clint murmured. He rubbed his cheek against Phil’s jaw with a rumbling like a contented cat. “All that matters is that you’re still you, you’re still here. However that happened, I don’t care.”

“I do,” Phil said. “It’s not pressing yet, but I do want to know. But right now I have a mission to plan.”

“You’ll be back?” Clint’s voice was quiet, cautious.

“As I can be, Clint,” Phil told him. “When I can. You could come with us sometime. See how the little people live, Avenger.”

“When I can,” Clint echoed. He leaned back to give Phil a quick kiss. “Now get out of here and save the world, Sir.”

“You still can’t give me orders, Barton,” Phil said blandly before returning the kiss. “Be careful out there, Hawkeye.”

“You, too, Agent,” Clint said, opening Lola’s door for Phil to climb in. “Take care of him, Little Red Vette.”

Phil was smiling as he drove away.

Twenty-four hours later, as the rest of Phil's team was bustling around, readying for their next mission, Phil was staring at a string of numbers on a screen that told him in no uncertain terms that he was locked out of whatever information was stored in certain, physical only files. No way to read them without getting into Fury’s office. And that would have to wait. 

“Wheels up in twenty,” Phil barked into the com, closing the program and pushing aside his uncertainties. “Let’s go be spooks.”

**Author's Note:**

> As always, thanks for the kudos and comments, but most of all, thanks for reading.
> 
> As this got Jossed, and as the incomparable [Kathar](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Kathar/pseuds/Kathar) got IDEAS that have turned into a joint series, this story has been rewritten as the (rather more explicit) [Rebooting](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1038521/chapters/2071857), which has become part two of [Two-Man Rule](http://archiveofourown.org/series/61710).
> 
> I did, however, want to leave this one standing, as I still love the idea behind it, and I do so love when Clint is so tender with Phil.


End file.
